Between Friends
by VanishedElf
Summary: It's a typical day with the Physical Kids. Everyone is drunk. Typical, except Eliot seems especially moody. Quentin follows him upstairs to see what's going on. His only hope is that his guilty crush remains undiscovered. Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh. Quentin/Eliot.
BETWEEN FRIENDS

If anyone knew anything about sickness it was Quentin. He was sure that there must have been a time when things were different—probably when he was a lot younger—but as it stood, even since being ever so graciously inducted into Brakebills South, his depression hadn't really gone away. Sure, it wasn't so crippling that he couldn't attend to the myriad duties bestowed upon those lucky enough to stumble into Fogg's little magical cornucopia. It more sort of followed him around like an irritating pet. _Knock, knock, Q. Remember that little thing about how you're never going to be happy, ever? Good, just checking. Carry on._

Thankfully Quentin was in good company. He wasn't sure if the saying was true, but regardless, he'd never seen so much collective misery in one place until becoming a member of the Physical Kids' private little coterie. Margo—perfect hair, perfect style, perfect body—simultaneously flirting and detesting Lucas, one of those annoying wannabes that trickled in from god knows where. It was impossible to tell if she was actually going to fuck him, or if he was just some cheap dollar store trinket she was momentarily fondling out of morbid curiosity. Penny, that idiot—what was he even doing here, anyway?—was bragging to Alice about something stupid and inconsequential, and Eliot stood, gazing out one of the windows into the summertime patio outside, pensively twirling a glass of wine. They were all wasted.

But, Eliot though.

It seemed like it had been ages since Quentin had last seen Eliot smile. It wasn't that Quentin really cared, he told himself. He'd long since divorced the notion that genuine altruism was possible for humans to achieve. It was just that things weren't quite as fun with Eliot being all sombre and moody like this. Without Eliot on board, the prevalence of ridiculously lewd commentary seriously flagged. Many, but fewer, bottles of wine were disinterred from the Physical Kids' cellar on the daily, and Quentin couldn't recall the last time he'd been forced into a humiliating game of truth or dare. It just wasn't right.

Quentin rose from the couch and was about to make for Eliot when Eliot turned swiftly and disappeared up the stairs. Quentin awkwardly adapted his trajectory and sauntered into the kitchen, where he perfunctorily filled his glass of wine. He couldn't have anybody thinking he hadn't meant to end up in there. He glanced over his shoulder. Nobody had seen. Of course they hadn't. They were all too busy getting sloshed. Even if they had of, what was the big deal? It wasn't like Quentin was up to no good. Thankfully he was already too tipsy to cross-section this assertion too thoroughly.

No, he was only pottering up the staircase because he was curious if he had remembered to shut the window he'd left open earlier that morning. Once he saw that he had, he only kept going because he saw the door to the study room was slightly ajar; plus, things were getting a little boring downstairs. It wasn't illegal for him to take a little indoor stroll in a slightly less tedious environment, was it?

"Uh, hey..." Quentin grunted, doing his best to make his entrance seem casual. Eliot stood with his back turned, staring out the window once more. A freshly cracked merlot balanced itself precariously on the ledge.

A couple moments passed wherein Eliot failed to respond. Quentin swallowed the rest of his wine in one gulp and set his glass on a desk, and immediately regretted it. Now his hands had nothing to do. Shoving them into his pockets, he sidled over to where Eliot was standing, then bailed last minute, yanking a book down from one of the shelves . He pretended to leaf through it, but truly, every iota of his attention was fixed on the boy standing next to the window, so stark, so solitary, so silent.

Finally Eliot shifted. He reached forward for the bottle and refilled his glass. The sound of the wine sloshing almost covered up his gasp, but not entirely. Eliot's hand shuddered, spilling wine all over the floor.

"Oh, let me get that," Quentin muttered, preparing one of the evaporating forms he'd learned last semester. He was halfway through the incantation when Eliot reached out and grabbed his wrist, breaking the configuration before it was completed.

"You know what it's like, don't you?" he demanded, voice thick with emotion and sorrow and whatever else he'd been feeding his liver that evening.

"Sorry?" Quentin asked, doing his best to ignore how fast his heartbeat had suddenly become.

"To feel fucking _empty._ " Eliot forewent his glass and drank right from the bottle, leaning his back against the window sill. Quentin could hardly believe it. Eliot's face was streaked with tears.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," Eliot mumbled. "It's just this. Everything. This fucking place. This fucking life."

"Did something happen with Margo?"

Eliot laughed sloppily, wiping his eyes. "No, no, it's nothing like that."

Quentin took a step closer and reached out, touching Eliot's shoulder. The moment his fingers brushed Eliot's shirt, Eliot's gaze zeroed in on the point of contact. When Eliot looked back up, he was grinning.

"What?" Quentin's blood ran cold. He suddenly recognized that look in Eliot's eyes. It was the same look he and Margo adopted after performed a particularly cruel prank on one of the first-years.

"Got you good, didn't I?" Eliot shook his hair back and wiped the last of his tears away with a cavalier hand. "Oh, and you're blushing, in case you didn't already know."

"Asshole!" Quentin whirled around. It was just like Eliot to pull something like this. Eliot was the master of tomfoolery. Quentin should have known. Except, he just hadn't figured Eliot to be quite so conniving as that. "How sick are you?"

"Only as sick as my little stalker," Eliot breathed, catching Quentin's arm before he could escape. Eliot spent most of his days preening like an especially self-absorbed parakeet, but when he wished to, he could be incredibly strong. Before Quentin knew it, he was pinned against the wall, his wrists held high above his head.

"What are you doing?" Quentin cried, wriggling haplessly. "The joke's over! Let it go."

"What joke?" Eliot asked innocently.

"The one where you make me come up here and play the supportive friend for no reason."

"Supportive friend? Are you sure?"

"What else would it be?" Quentin demanded awkwardly, immediately blushing a deeper shade of crimson. The corner of Eliot's mouth quirked up into a twisted smile.

Then, just as quickly as it had disappeared, Eliot's despair was back. He leaned forward and kissed Quentin, sliding his hands down Quentin's arms and back up the sides of his head. He wrung Quentin's hair with two fists and pushed his hips into Quentin's, gasping and sobbing and laughing wretchedly.

"What are you doing," Quentin managed to croak, feeling himself push against Eliot involuntarily. He willed himself to hold still and closed his eyes, disentangling his own hands from Eliot's messed locks. "You've truly lost it."

"Please, Quentin," Eliot snapped. "For once, just shut your face."

"What if the others come up—"

"They won't."

"And if they hear us?"

"They'll just figure a couple of losers decided to blow off a little steam." Eliot ground his hips over Quentin's thigh once more. "What's the big deal, you've never done a guy before?"

"Um, in fact I haven't," Quentin replied as pointedly as he could, given that Eliot had begun to undo Quentin's pants.

"Well, lucky you." Eliot ran his palm over the front of Quentin's boxers and purred. "You came to the right place. I'm a good teacher."

Eliot knelt, quickly taking Quentin into his mouth, and Quentin was immediately in shambles. Up to this point he'd done his best to ignore the little crush he'd been nursing for a particular upperclassman—possible, when the extent of his affliction was the odd stray thought or a particularly incriminating dream; entirely impossible, however, when he was currently receiving head from said upperclassman, and the smell of the upperclassman's cologne was all around, and his fingers—the ones that weren't running themselves up and down Quentin's cock, in tandem with the upperclassman's mouth—were laced through Quentin's own.

"Eliot, I—" Quentin gasped, pulling himself away.

Eliot stared up forlornly. "I'm sorry, was I underperforming? It happens sometimes when I'm entirely wasted."

"No, it's just," Quentin said crookedly, his wit suddenly vanished. He may not have ever screwed a guy before, but guy or girl, he knew his own limits. If he blew his load now, he might miss out on his one and only chance ever to enact his primary wank fantasy of the semester. Which was to fuck Eliot silly. He decided to ask it bluntly. "Do you have any lube?"

"Uh, wow," Eliot replied breathlessly, smirking at Quentin as he rummaged through his bag. "I thought you'd never ask." He pulled a small vial out of one of the side pockets and motioned for Quentin to come forward.

"Warm me up," he whispered into Eliot's ear, pulling down his trousers. "You know, if you want me, and all that."

"I do," Quentin replied quickly. "I mean, I do. I really do."

It seemed both of them had begun to lose their composure. The jocularity that usually carried their conversations was losing ground, overtaken by their festering hunger. All Quentin could think about was the taste of Eliot's mouth.

Eliot leaned over the desk and took a sip of wine. Quentin swallowed thickly, angling his fingers into Eliot's opening. Eliot reached behind and began to direct him.

"Just a little lower."

"Like this?"

"Yes, now curl your finger slightly and—"

Eliot jolted forward, slamming the bottle of wine down against the tabletop.

"Is something wrong?"

"Again," Eliot moaned, slithering his hips from side-to-side. "Do it again!"

Quentin worked his fingers in and out in even pulses, doing his best to ignore the way Eliot braced himself with two hands, arching his back and crying out with shameless pleasure. If Quentin took in the sight to its full capacity, he was sure he might blow his load right then and there.

Somehow he managed to hold on. After what seemed like a perpetuity of fervid anguish, Eliot reached around and snatched Quentin's wrist once more.

"I want it," he begged, spreading his legs ever so slightly. "I want your cock."

Quentin slicked himself with a fresh dousing from Eliot's vial and began to angle himself downwards. At the last moment, he pulled back.

"What's wrong, darling? 

"Turn onto your back."

"Excuse me?"

Quentin had had enough of Eliot's coyness. He might not have been as strong as Eliot, but Eliot was fairly skinny, and it was thanks to this that Quentin was able to grab him by the hips and whirl him around so that the two of them were standing face-to-face. Quentin pushed Eliot back until Eliot was lying on the table, and rested Eliot's legs on his shoulders.

"Oh, don't tell me you're going to get all romantic—"

Quentin pushed himself inside and Eliot's quip was immediately snuffed out. Eliot threw his head back and cried out, covering his mouth with a hand. At first Quentin thought Eliot had developed a sudden sense of discretion, but then he saw that the upperclassman was biting the skin between his thumb and forefinger. The hand was a pacifier, not a silencer. The sight was almost too much to take.

Quentin moved with as much control as he could, stifling the cries that erupted in his own throat. Eliot pushed himself hungrily against Quentin's hips.

"Harder, Quentin! Please!"

Quentin had never heard Eliot be so polite. He leaned forward and pumped himself against Eliot's thighs, plunging himself deeper and deeper into his writhing friend. The bottle of wine tottered off the edge and smashed onto the floor, but Quentin hardly noticed. His ears were pounding with his own heartbeat.

"Eliot, I'm—"

Before he knew it Quentin was coming, gushing deeply with Eliot's spasming body held tight all around him. Once his movements slowed, he looked up and saw a fire not yet extinguished smouldering behind Eliot's eyes.

"That was fucking hot."

"I'm glad you thought so," Eliot remarked precariously, making to pull away.

Quentin glanced down. "But you haven't come yet."

"Don't worry about it."

"Eliot—"

"Didn't you get what you wanted?" Eliot snapped. "Now you can brush this little fantasy of yours under the rug and forget about it."

Eliot was right. Quentin had enacted his fantasy to the fullest extent. At this point he should have been feeling awkward, embarrassed, or maybe even partially repulsed. However, every one of these emotions was currently absent. In fact, he didn't even feel _that_ much different from how he had before stepping foot in the upstairs study room. Uh oh.

"Not _everything_ I wanted," Quentin lied. He figured one of the only ways to make Eliot drop his guard would be with something theatrical and dramatic. Like a dare. "I've always wanted to see what you look like when you jerk off."

"You really are sick."

"But if you're too shy to, then, I guess—"

"As if," Eliot exclaimed, motioning around them. "Look at the scene we've made. Does this look like the work of the timorous?"

With that, he leaned back and reached between his own legs. Quentin leaned over and watched. It seemed the more garish Quentin was about it, the more shameless Eliot might allow himself to be. Neither of them were comfortable enough to proceed without this strange emotional scaffolding.

 _Not yet, anyway._

Quentin immediately crushed the guilty thought.

Eliot worked his own cock up and down, stealing little glimpses in Quentin's direction. Quentin could tell that Eliot still wasn't fully letting go. Furrowing his brow, Quentin reached down and pushed two fingers inside Eliot's ass. Eliot gave a little gasp and closed his eyes. His movements became more hurried.

"That's it," Quentin found himself muttering under his breath. "That's a good boy."

Eliot bit his lip, his eyebrows curving upwards ever so slightly. Quentin had never seen him look so vulnerable, so perfectly open.

"Q, I'm, I—"

Eliot came, his ass spasming around Quentin's fingers. Quentin fingered him until the pulses stilled and Eliot dropped backwards, his head lolling lazily over the wine-stained oak.

"Ooooookayyy..." he chuckled weakly. "Holy shit."

Quentin could barely speak. All he managed was a choked, "Th-thanks."

The two of them got dressed wordlessly. Quentin successfully enacted the evaporation spell to clean up the wine, along with a few other things, and in no time they were standing in front of one another, fully clothed and properly coiffed. _Now_ Quentin felt awkward.

"Don't look so disappointed," Eliot teased, yanking playfully at Quentin's collar. "Heaven knows we needed a little more drama around here. Things have been pretty dull these days."

Quentin looked up. "You're feeling better, then?"

"Of course. Very few things cannot be fixed with a good fuck," Eliot said blithely, strutting across the room. Quentin stared at the hardwood.

Eliot paused at the door, running his hand down the frame. When he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper.

"But, thanks." He paused, as if speaking each word cost him dearly. "It was nice."

With that, he was gone. Quentin listened to his friend's footsteps as they descended the stairs. Great. Now, not only was Quentin depressed, but he was also confused. And about to be haphazardly scrutinized by a room of his soused peers. Life was great.

 _ **FIN**_


End file.
